The Price of Freedom
by Freelance Muse
Summary: One version of young Tristan's dark distant past. Historical legend unfortunately does not belong to me.


The boy was manacled to a huge bed, nothing unusual for him since it belonged to the rich Saracen, Darius, as did Tristan himself. It was a place he had resigned himself to accept, or so he behaved anyhow. The brilliant yellow silks that lined the bed and hung from the ceiling were nothing new to his eyes, the opulence of the eastern world had long since lost its affect on him. The helplessness of having his arms chained up over his head however, lingered. He blamed himself for his current situation as much as he blamed Darius' guards. He had run away the week before, for the first time ever, and the bruises from his punishment had barely started to fade. _Damn the eunuch who followed me and revealed my hiding place, damn me for not noticing the soft shouldered bastard. _

Tristan tried the golden chains, showing the sinewy definition of the muscles in his young arms, which were starting to resemble manly limbs but still retained a somewhat puerile appearance. The chains were firmly affixed to the stone wall behind the bed. He stopped his attempts and went completely still. Without warning or invitation, his mind took him back to a place whose name he barely remembered: Lyonesse. He was absorbed entirely in the memory of waves crashing against those shores, so enraptured, in fact, that he did not notice when Darius entered. The older man had been looking at him for some time, glorying in the boy's body, smirking at the blue-black marks he'd had tattooed on the boy's face. He was pleased with himself about the placement of those marks, they framed the angular cheekbones of the barbarian perfectly. When Darius' footfalls became audible, the boy jumped just a little, he had been so rapt in his thoughts.

"Little one, I know that you should fear your master, but do not worry tonight, I only plan to hurt you a little." The man spoke in his own tongue, the language he had made certain his young slave learned to speak, and learned properly. Darius had had Tristan educated, as thoroughly as he kept him groomed, fed and exercised. It was a mark of noblesse in his society to be able to treat one's servants well, it demonstrated wealth, civility, and mercy.

Tristan made no response to the remark, though for just a moment his grey eyes blazed out at the bearded Saracen.

"Tristan, did you hear me?"

"Yes, my liege." The boy's voice was even, the response automatic, and because of the quietude of his tone, it was pitched lower than was normal for a twelve-year-old boy.

"Now," Darius looked at him lasciviously and started to disrobe, but thought better of it after looking at those sweet adolescent limbs. After all the boy's only duty, the only purpose of those limbs was to anticipate his desires, to serve him. "I want you to undress me, and then use your mouth on me until I tell you to do otherwise."

"Yes, my liege." Tristan's eyes were half closed, his gaze averted, as if he thought the older man might see the hatred in his eyes. He had learned years ago to hide his feelings, to bury the ones that might get him hurt, and more recently he had learned even better, to not feel them at all. His apathy terrified him because it ran a rivalry with his odium for his captors.

The older man produced a key from a bracelet on his wrist, and unlocked the manacles. He then stood and waited for the boy to obey. Tristan took the shortest moment to stretch out his arms once freed, before standing, smoothing down his loincloth, and gently undressing Darius. He was efficient at the job, having done it so many times before, having been trained in how to do it like a Zephyr, as if the clothes wanted to come off of their own accord, without grabbing and tugging. He started by loosening then removing the boots, then the silk shirt, and then he moved back down to the trousers. When done he neatly folded both items of clothing and placed them on a table near the bed, the boots underneath it.

While he was tending to the Saracen's clothes, Darius had settled himself on the bed, partially propped up on pillows. He flicked his bejeweled hand as a beckoning gesture to the boy. Tristan's face showed nothing as he lightly climbed into bed with the hairy man. His eyes had not looked twice at the dagger he had removed with his master's boots. A quicksilver hand hid the dagger beneath a pillow as he crawled up, kissing the man's legs. He looked at the erect penis that was waiting for his mouth, at the turgid organ that had driven home the lesson in violation, in broken wills, and his apathy was driven away by his anger.

"Never again, Darius," He said with his low-pitched voice.

Darius never had a chance to respond, the boy acted so quickly. He lunged to the head of the bed, grabbed the manacles, and caught Darius up in them, wrapping the chains around his wrists before snapping them shut. He snatched the key off of the man's wrist and threw it out of the window. As quickly as he could, he pushed a pillow over the startled face, and then placed blankets over the pillow. Darius' voice was muffled beyond audibility when he started to shout. Tristan saw the dagger then, with the jeweled hilt, and he drove it into Darius' gut. He then put on the Tyrian purple garments Darius had worn into the room, and Darius' coin purse. He climbed out of the window, down to the ground, and ran off into the night. As he padded barefoot through the town, down alleys and side streets, thoughts of the yellow sheets turning red filled him with a triumphant joy. He found his way to the docks, and got himself passage on a trade ship that was going only a short distance, but it had all he needed: it was leaving within the half hour.

When he handed the captain the entire sack of coins, he did not understand why the man looked shocked. Once they were underway, the captain came and found him sitting still in a corner belowdecks.

"You gave me too much, I just can't take it all."

"You can have it all, it is not mine." Tristan responded, thinking that he had already paid a higher price than twenty-six gold pieces for his freedom. He had paid a life.


End file.
